Tarnished Gold
by Amatista
Summary: Inspired by "The Bronze." Three years after the 2016 Olympics, Lance Tucker's life path has taken some unexpected turns, which eventually lead him to New York in hopes of achieving some sort of escape. This leads him to drown his sorrows at a local bar, where he finds unexpected sympathy in the form of a skeptical bartender, who is not so easily impressed...


_~Three Years Later, Greenwich Village, NY~_

"… _and I'm here live with Gerry Harrington himself, former Olympic gold medalist, and heavy favorite to take over as coordinator for the U.S. women's team in the 2020 summer games. Gerry, as I understand it, this is an opportunity you've actually been looking forward to for quite some time."_

" _That's right, Cathy. As a lifelong gymnast, I've always known that I wanted to continue playing an active role in the sport, even after my imminent retirement from competition."_

" _A career that brought you to your first Olympics when you were eighteen, correct?"_

" _Yeah; London was the beginning for me, and I couldn't have been more blessed to work with the talented group of athletes that was brought together by our own coordinator. Getting the chance to select the next crop of promising young athletes would be nothing short of an honor for my country."_

" _And as I understand it, there was an abrupt departure of the team coach from the Toronto games that prompted the sudden search for a replacement?"_

" _Ah, yeah; that's how I understand it. And, you know, it's not like these things can't happen; they just do sometimes. But look at all the golds Team USA won in Toronto. We have a legacy to preserve, and if that responsibility were to fall to me, then I think we'll have a good chance of a repeat performance—"_

Oh, piss _off_ , Harrington! Lance Tucker hissed to himself, pinching the bridge of his nose. "Could we _please_ change the fucking channel already?"

"Relax; I've got it," the bartender said calmly.

Soon enough, the conversation in his ear changed to a roaring crowd. Easing one eye open, Lance saw that the television screen to his left now displayed a soccer match between Brazil and Italy. Fucking swell, he thought, taking another swallow of his whiskey. By now, he'd become somewhat numb to the ensuing sting he felt in his nose and chest, and set the tumbler down on the bar. "Buster," he rattled the remaining ice in his glass, "'nother one."

He could hear her scooping ice into a fresh glass, and rubbed the heel of his palm against one eye in an attempt to distract himself from the dull throb in his head. Fucking Harrington, he thought for the millionth time. If it hadn't been for the scandal with Maggie—

He heard a glass being set in front of him, and he opened his eyes and furrowed his brow. "The fuck is this?"

"Water."

He looked up at her, hardly amused. "I see that, smart-ass. Now why isn't it Jack?"

Renee Buchanan, affectionately known to most of her patrons as "Buster," was hardly fazed as she placed a hand on her hip. "Because you've already downed four doubles in the past hour and a half, and haven't had a thing to eat yet. So, until you rehydrate and put some damn food in your stomach, I'm cutting you off."

He narrowed his eyes at her, his words slurring slightly when he said, "Hey, I'm a paying cusssomer, dammit."

She arched one of her dark brows in response. "And as manager, I'm legally obligated to make sure you don't jeopardize your health on my watch. So," she reached under the bar to grab a menu, "unless you want me to forcibly throw your ass out of here—and you know I will—just shut up, drink the damn water, and order some food before I _really_ get pissed, Tucker," she slapped the menu down in front of him, her brown eyes full of warning.

It didn't escape his attention when a couple of other dwellers at the rail chuckled to themselves, one old geezer murmuring "You tell 'im, Buster" to himself. Hearing that had Lance clenching his teeth in annoyance, but he knew she was never one to relent, so he just continued to scowl as he rested his arms on the bar. "Fries," he muttered, pushing the menu aside.

"That can be a start," she said, turning her back as she went over to the computer by the liquor display. As she punched his order in, she added, "Hang onto that menu in case you want anything else."

He didn't respond, just kept his eyes on her as he finally picked up his water and took a generous swig. One thing he'd learned about Renee over the past two years was that she didn't put up with anyone's shit, particularly his own, and he'd quickly discovered when it was best to just keep his mouth shut. Seeing the well-defined biceps beneath the sleeves of her polo shirt also served to remind him of how capable she was of tossing his ass out into the street if he didn't cooperate. As pissed as he currently was, he wouldn't deny that it was one of the things he quietly respected about her. She was a physically strong woman, thanks to years of involvement in the MMA circuit, making the moniker of Renee "The Buster" Buchanan still relevant.

He set his glass down with a sigh, rubbing at his head with one hand. The move from California to New York wasn't one he'd wanted to make, but it had been necessary. Anything to escape the controversy, the media storm that had surrounded him following his one-night stand with Maggie. Ah, Maggie. Sweet, naïve Maggie Townsend. Champion of the Toronto games; America's sweetheart; the one whose career would secure his legacy as one of the greatest gold-medal coaches in the history of the Olympics. Amazing how all those dreams vanished after the _one night_ he'd fucked her and managed to get her pregnant. Un-fucking-believable. It didn't matter that she was of consenting age; the public outcry had been swift and brutal, many labeling him as a predator for taking advantage of his young protégé while she was still in her prime. Parents of Olympic hopefuls quickly yanked their children—especially their daughters—from his gymnastics program, and the ensuing pressure prompted the Olympic committee to remove him from his position as coach for the US team. Coaching opportunities dried up as the story continued to circulate, making it more difficult for him to make ends meet financially. His reputation forever ruined all because of one stupid fuck-up.

A chance for him to get his ultimate revenge against Hope, and it had backfired spectacularly in his face...

At least here in New York, Lance Tucker wasn't a household name, and for once, the anonymity was nice. To be able to walk down the street, or sit in a deli, or even enter a grocery store without being verbally thrashed by the masses was an immense relief. Same could be said for the first time he ever walked into _Lucky's Last_ for a much-needed drink. The bar dwellers kept to themselves, and, thankfully, had no idea who he was, making it one of the few places he could rely on as a temporary haven. And it was where he first met Renee, the no-nonsense bartender who'd immediately caught his eye with her long, dark hair and incredible physique, and as soon as she turned to face him, he remembered the way his stomach had slowly sunk. It was as though she was seeing right _through_ him, completely scrutinizing before he'd even said one word to her. Then again, being in her position, she must have developed a sixth sense on those who crossed into her territory, and that's what this was: her territory. He was very much an intruder here, and he'd never forget that look from her for the rest of his life.

Before he knew it, Renee was setting a basket of fries and a bottle of ketchup in front of him, then automatically picked up his glass to refill it. He blinked, not even realizing that it was nearly empty. Filling it from the soda gun, she set it down in front of him again, not even waiting for a "thanks" as she moved on to take an order from the newest arrival at the rail. He inhaled, the savory aroma of fried potatoes causing his stomach to growl, and it suddenly struck him just how hungry he actually was. Reaching into the basket, he grabbed a fry and popped in into his mouth, reveling in the hot, salty flavor on his tongue as he continued to silently watch her every move. Bending down, she grabbed a bottle of Miller from a small bar fridge, her loosely pleated hair falling over one shoulder before she stood and twisted the cap off with her bare hand.

"Here you go, Charlie," she uttered before coming over to Lance's side again, where she collected the tab of the customer sitting just a few seats away from him.

"No change; I'm all set."

"Alright, Mike," said Renee, "thanks. Behave yourself."

Mike made some remark about her sounding like his wife, and even though Lance groaned inwardly, it made Renee smile. A surprisingly sweet smile that only seemed to grace her lips every so often, and Lance drew in a long, slow breath, unable to take his eyes off of her as he shoved two more fries into his mouth. After wringing out a damp rag, she came over to wipe the spot where Mike had been sitting. As she reached for the far edge of the counter, the star-shaped tattoo on her right forearm became very visible to his eyes. Not a solid star, but a quote arranged into the shape of one: _How Lucky We Are To Be Alive Right Now_. He snorted softly. _Hamilton_ freak…

"Any word from Maggie lately?" She asked, picking up a mug and wiping away the ring of condensation underneath.

He nearly scowled again, but just kept chewing his food. Renee was the one of the few people he'd confided in about the situation with Maggie, whether he was sober, or, more commonly, in a drunken stupor. For some reason, he just felt at ease taking to her about it, and there was a part of him that felt like she was always listening. Truly listening. "Just an e-mail; video of Lochlyn."

"Can I see?"

He paused, lifting his eyes to hers. Something in her face had softened, and whether he wanted to admit it or not, that subtle change in her appearance always had an impact on him. With a sigh, he wiped his hand on his jeans and pulled out his phone, scrolling through his e-mails until he came across the recent header reading " _Lochlyn Runs_." Lochlyn Townsend; his daughter with Maggie. Opening the attached file, he caught a still image of Lochlyn's smiling face, and then felt something tighten in his chest. Ignoring this, he handed his phone to Renee, who looked at the screen and gave a genuine smile.

"God, look how much hair," she commented, touching the screen to play the clip.

How much hair, he repeated to himself, hearing the squealing giggle of Lochlyn come alive on the audio feed. Hair that was dark like her mother's; eyes that were blue like his…He pursed his lips together. He'd watched the video at least eighty times in the past two days, memorizing every frame down to the second. Lochlyn's first running steps across the living room carpet as she held her arms out to be caught by her grandma, the tufts of her pigtails bobbing with every clomping step.

All the while, Renee was still smiling, even as the clip came to an end. "How old is she now?" She asked, handing the phone back to him.

"Two years, three months, eighteen days," he rattled off automatically, pocketing his phone.

"That's precise," she said, tossing the rag back toward the bucket.

He half-shrugged, reaching for his water. "I just know."

She tilted her head. "That's actually very cool, Tucker."

He could only stare at her, scanning her face and trying to detect any trace of irony in her features. There was none, not even as she turned away to assist an approaching costumer with an inquiry. He sighed to himself. It was amazing how she could go from completely busting his balls one minute to being the most empathetic listener the next. And he knew she'd heard his story so many times: about how his affair with Maggie had resulted in a strained relationship between them, both personally and professionally; about his reluctance to commit to someone who was nothing more than an impressionable kid in his mind; about how simply looking at his child—his _daughter_ in his arms for the first time was enough to jar him to his very core, reminding him that he was, indeed, a father to this little girl. A father…to this…this…

No; he couldn't do it. He just couldn't, and amid the rising tide of pressure on all sides, he'd made the conscious decision to walk away from his responsibilities only four months after Lochlyn was born. Forfeiting his parental rights to Maggie, who took immediate action by legally designating their child's last name as Townsend, as well as obtaining a court order for Lance to pay child support. He quietly honored this obligation without complaint.

He frowned. Fucking Christ: how many times _had_ Renee heard that story? It was a wonder she didn't clock him one in the mouth just to get him to shut up about it, but she always let him ramble on…

"Better?"

He gave a start when she returned to take the now empty basket in hand. Jesus, how fast had he been cruising through those fries? Guess he really _had_ been hungry. And the more he thought about it, the more he realized the throbbing in his head was beginning to subside a little. Lifting his eyes to hers, he sighed, arching a brow as he asked, "Satisfied? Can I get my drink now?"

* * *

Arrogant bastard. That was Renee's first impression of him when he first walked into _Lucky's_ two years ago, and as usual, her first instinct had been correct. She wasn't stupid; she knew exactly who Lance Tucker was. Hell, how could she _not_ know? The Olympics had been broadcast on at least one of the bar's televisions every day during the 2016 games, and she could remember the multiple shots they got of him randomly doing push-ups. Or gesturing annoyingly to hype up the performance of his golden child, Christa. Or swiping chapstick on his damn lips for the umpteenth time. God, what a douche he'd appeared to be! That had only been verified the instant he'd opened his mouth, proving her intuition to be right yet again. The guy had obviously gotten away with a lot of crap in his life, based on some of his drunken boastings, and she hardly had the time or patience to put up with his bullshit.

At the same time, though…

"Can I get my drink now?"

She stared at him, then, grabbing a clean glass mug from under the bar, she proceeded to fill it with Blue Moon from the tap.

"That's not Jack," Lance said flatly.

"You're very observant," she said, not even bothering to look at him.

"That's not what I asked for—"

"Look, just humor me and drink the damn beer first," she ordered rather patiently, garnishing the rim with an orange slice as she turned to set the mug before him. "Then we'll see about the Jack." In all honesty, she wanted him to force him to slow down his alcohol intake, and beer was good for making her customers take their time. Much richer and more filling than straight liquors. His eyes were narrowed at her, the annoyance radiating off of him in waves, but she hardly cared. She leaned her palms against the counter, challenging him silently as she waited for his response. It took a moment, but he finally sighed and grabbed the glass handle, bringing the mug to his lips.

Now she was satisfied. She had to give the man some credit: despite the perpetual ass he could be, at least he knew when to stop arguing with her, and that was something that had always caused her to take pause with him; made her watch and listen a bit closer than she otherwise might have allowed herself to. Making her rounds at the rail, Renee grabbed Charlie another Miller, settled a couple more tabs, and retrieved a rag to vigorously wipe down the newly vacated spots. Every so often, she'd glance over at Lance, whose eyes seemed glued to his mug, the fingers of one hand toying with the rim. His reputation with women was well-known to anyone involved in the realm of sports, and just by looking at him, it was easy to see why. With his dark hair, piercing blue eyes, and well-defined jaw line, it was no wonder that women would be willing to turn stupid and drop their panties just at the sight of him. Poor idiots. Although, she had to admit how much more appealing he was with that thick layer of stubble covering his cheeks. Very discreetly, she gave a half-smile. From what she could see, he hadn't drunk very much of his beer, which meant her plan to slow him down was working.

Good, she thought, wiping away the last few crumbs from the bar.

Tossing the rag aside, she leaned back against the bar with a sigh, taking a moment to watch the soccer match on the same television that Lance was watching. She crossed her arms over her chest. So far, Brazil had a two-point lead on Italy, which in soccer usually equated to a large margin. Italy would have to step up in the second half if they didn't want to face elimination—

"Should still be me," Lance muttered, causing her to snap her head around to him.

"What?"

He plucked the orange from the rim and let it float in his beer. "Coaching the team; going to the games in Tokyo next year," his lip curled into a slight sneer. "It should still be me."

She blinked, then lifted an eyebrow. "Well, it's not."

He looked up at her, his blue eyes hardening. "But it should be."

Here we go again, she thought. "Yeah, weak argument, Tucker," she said, though was keeping her voice low for his benefit. "It won't change the fact that that's what the reality is; you're just going to have to learn to accept it."

His eyes remained locked with hers, then narrowed ever-so-slightly. "How'd you handle it?"

She knew what he was getting at, but still asked, "Handle what?"

"Your career ending," he took another swallow of his beer as she subtlety clenched her fingers around one of her biceps. "Unfairly. Just…everything you worked so hard for your whole life just—gone. Like that," he snapped his fingers, shook his head, "and I've seen you fight; you obviously still had a lot more to give, and then it just all blows up in your face. How the fuck does Buster just move on from all that?"

It was a topic he'd approached before, knowing that she'd had such a promising career in the fighting arena, but it was the first time he'd asked her in such a point-blank manner. There were many ways she could have responded to him, but instead, she simply gave a half-shrug. "Because I had to."

He blinked. "That's it?"

"What do you want me to say, Tucker? My knee blew out; it was a career-ending injury. That story's never going to change, no matter how many times I tell it. You of all people know that that's one of the risks associated with being an athlete; sometimes, they're short-lived careers."

His brow furrowed, and it might have been a trick of the light, but she thought she detected the barest hint of sadness in his eyes, which she attributed to the beer. "You were one of the best fighters in the entire MMA circuit, and everyone knows that. Hell, you were bantamweight champ for two years straight; a Goddamn legend by the time you were twenty-one. Even Rousey said you were her inspiration for getting back into the ring. I mean, how does all that get pushed aside, Renee? How do you just…walk away from something like that?"

She arched an eyebrow at him. It wasn't often that any of her customers referred to her by her first name, but she was more focused on his last question to her, and the flame of anger that was slowly rising within her chest. Turning completely towards him, she braced her palms on the counter, leaning in close as her eyes bore into his. "First of all, fuck you for thinking I could just walk away from everything I worked my ass off for." He seemed taken aback, his eyes widening. "I hardly gave up on my dreams just because I wrecked my damn knee, and you need to know that quitting was the hardest decision I've ever had to make. So I'll say it again: _fuck you_ , and don't you dare assume to know anything about my life."

At that, he seemed to wince slightly, an almost guilty look crossing his features. While she felt an immediate inkling of satisfaction, it also caused the brunt of her anger to dissipate, and she felt herself relax a bit as she sighed. Her voice was much calmer when she told him, "Shit happens, Tucker, and I could either sit there and wallow in self-pity, or suck it up and figure out how to move on. And we both know wallowing just isn't my style."

He held her gaze for what felt like a long moment, then narrowed his eyes in thought. "What the hell is it, then? What keeps you going each day if you can't do what you love anymore?"

She tilted her head at the barest angle, his inquiry prompting so many thoughts to come to mind, but she only focused on one. "Just because I can't fight anymore doesn't mean my life is over. I still have a purpose in this world, even if it no longer involves throwing punches."

Sighing softly, he lowered his eyes to the bar. "The Olympics…they were _everything_ to me."

"I know—"

"Even just…being part of it all. I mean, I thought I'd be a coach for years, but if I'm not involved with it anymore…" He shook his head. "They'll just forget about me all over again."

This time, it was her turn to furrow her brow. "The hell are you talking about?"

"Rome." He dug a thumbnail into one of the wooden grooves and released a sigh. "It's just…I put my entire heart and soul into everything I did that year, came through with nearly perfect scores…And for what? To have Greggory outshine me by winning a bronze? A _fucking_ bronze?" His upper lip curled into a sneer. "I bring home two medals, but that little bitch is the fucking darling of the Olympics just because of her injury?" He seemed to choke on that last word, then brought a hand to rub at his forehead. "It's like I was nothing; everyone just forgot about what I'd done."

She stared at him incredulously. "Like hell they did. You won a freaking gold medal at the Olympics, Tucker; she didn't. " He looked up at her, an astonished expression on his face. "You're hardly nothing after all that, and no one forgot you. Millions of people saw your performance; they're still damn proud of you for what you did."

"She's right, son," Charlie said from the opposite end of the bar, raising his bottle in salute. "You did do this country proud."

Renee had to smile at the elder man. "Thank you, Charlie." She turned back to Lance, who seemed to shift uncomfortably on his barstool. She leaned onto her elbows, and she noticed when he blinked rapidly a few times. "What the hell does it matter if she got more attention than you? So what? Let her have it, for God's sake. You know your worth in the world of gymnastics, and so did the Olympics Committee, or else they wouldn't have appointed you head coach for the Toronto games."

The look that overcame his features…it was almost as though she could see tears pooling in his eyes, though it was hard to say in the low lights of the bar. "You…said you still have a purpose, but… I'm not strong like you, Renee. What the hell kind of purpose could there possibly be for me now?"

She took a breath, releasing it through her nostrils. "You have Lochlyn." Something about those three words caused him to visibly sit taller. "Even if things didn't work out with Maggie, there's still a chance to make a difference in your daughter's life. Maybe now is that time."

Again, he stared at her in silence, and for his sake, Renee gave him a small smile. His jaw tightened beneath his cheeks, his gaze gradually falling to the bar once more.

Then she squinted her eyes slightly. She knew what his response would be, but she suddenly couldn't help herself. "You sure no one's ever told you you kind of look like that guy from the Marvel movies? The metal-armed guy?"

He rolled his eyes. "For the millionth time, _no_."

She bit back a laugh. "Just checking."

Soon after, she heard a voice call from the kitchen, announcing that her latest food order was ready for pick-up. Giving the counter a quick pat, Renee slid back from Lance, letting the smile linger on her lips as she headed towards the back.

* * *

 _~2:03a.m.~_

"GOOOOOOOOOOAL!" Lance bellowed triumphantly, lifting his glass high into the air. "Viva la Brazil! Or…whatever the hell they say." He snorted out a laugh before knocking back his last swallow of Jack. "Hell, I shoulda played soccer. Those guys do amazing things with their balls…"

"Yeah, I'll hold," Renee said into the phone's receiver, shaking her head in amusement as Lance continued to whoop loudly at the post-game antics on T.V. She'd given last call a little over half an hour ago, and one-by-one, her customers had gradually vacated the premises until only Charlie and Lance remained. And one was clearly more inebriated than the other. Despite having a second beer and ordering a side of chicken fingers, that last hit of Jack had shot Lance straight to the moon.

Hence, why Renee was taking time to arrange for a cab to take him home. Better than having him wander the streets of Greenwich alone in such a state.

"That's it for me," Charlie said from his end of the rail, setting his empty bottle down. "You need any help with him?" He inclined his head toward Lance, who was now off his stool and shaking his ass in some sort of clumsy drunken dance.

Smirking to herself, she assured him, "No worries; I've got it."

"Alright," he placed some bills on the counter before pulling his cap back on. "I'm all set here, Buster."

"Thanks, Charlie. See you tomorrow." He waved as he made for the front, and a voice began talking in her ear again. "Yeah, I'm here," she said, listening to the questions being asked. "Yeah, _Lucky's Last_ on 5th. Just one passenger tonight. Yes. That'll be fine. Thanks," she hung up the phone at last. "Okay, Tucker," she came around from behind the bar, "fifteen minutes until you're someone else's problem."

"Awww," he groaned, "but I only want to be yoooours—" He tripped over his feet.

"Jesus!" She hissed, quickening her step to get to him—

But he managed to catch himself on the edge of the bar just in time. "Whoa, shit," he said, unexpectedly dissolving into a fit of giggles.

With a patient sigh, Renee came and helped him straighten up before situating him back on one of the barstools. "Oh, trust me: you'll be my problem again as soon as you come back in here. Knowing you, that'll probably be tomorrow."

He lifted his head, a delirious smile splitting his stubbled face. "Yasee?" He slurred, pointing a finger at her. "You're right. You're asssolutely right! That's why we work so well together."

"Ah, good one," she scoffed, walking over to the television on the adjacent wall.

"No, think abo—out it," he said through a brief belch. "We both know sporsss, and we…we're both former champs…and we're beautiful people, Bus'er. Beautiful!"

Hitting the power button to turn it off, Renee walked over to the next television, stepping on a chair in order to reach it. "Is that so?"

"Yeah! Fuck, you know you're beautiful, Renee."

For some reason, that caused her take pause, but only for a second. She murmured a "Hmm" as she reached up to tap the grey button on the small Sony set. Stepping down, she went to unplug one of the neon beer signs.

"You know what else I think? I think you…you're hard on me, but I cansee why."

Though she wasn't looking at him, she kept her head angled towards him as she continued to kill some of the lights around the bar. "Why's that?"

"'Cause you're the only one acshually lookin' out for me. 'Cause you don't want to see me to get hurt."

She turned to him at last, seeing that any trace of his grin had disappeared, and that he was trying hold her gaze as steadily as possible.

"You don't," he said quietly, lowering his eyes again. "I know you don't."

Though her mind was scanning his words, his voice, his facial expressions, even his body language for any traces of his usual bullshit…She released an audible sigh. "Come on; your cab will be here soon," she crossed over to him. "Let's get you up front so that you're ready when it gets here," she took his arm, draping it across her shoulders.

"Ho, look out ladies: the ball-Bus'er's pickin' me up!" He chortled, allowing her to help him to his feet. In the back of her mind, she detected how defined his muscles were through the thin fabric of his jacket. "Gettin' lucky tonight at _Lucky's_ after all!"

Ass, she groaned inwardly, waiting for him to steady himself beside her. "I would love to punch you right now, just so you know."

"Ooooh, kinda like foreplay for you?"

Maybe it was because he was so shit-faced, but something about his inquiry was so endearing that it made her laugh gently. "You're a dick, but I think you know that."

He turned his head toward her with a grin. "So long as I'm your kind of dick," the smell of Jack heavy on his breath, but she refrained from wincing. "D'you wanna find out?"

She arched an eyebrow, but let herself laugh again as she stepped forward. "Maybe I ought to punch you somewhere else," she muttered.

"Come on, you mean you're not even…gonna try to take advantage of Lance Tucker when you have him at his…mosss vulnerable point? I'll hardly put up a fight."

"Then why would you be worth my time?" Renee countered. "Honestly, Tucker, call me when you grow up a little, then maybe we'll talk."

Almost instantly, Lance collapsed beside her, and Renee gasped when he nearly took her down with him. "Oh, shit!" She cried out, managing to catch him just before he hit the floor. "Tucker," she knelt beside him, "you okay?"

His face was tucked against her shoulder, one hand gripping her dark shirt, and the next thing she knew, the man started sobbing. She froze, stunned by the sudden transition from banter to sorrow. Sobbing. Lance Tucker was…actually _crying_ in her arms, and those were genuine tears she felt dampening the fabric of her shirt.

Oh…Jesus. It wasn't the most unusual thing for her to see a drunk crying, but it was certainly the first time she was seeing _him_ cry. "Hey," she said, "what's with—"

"I don't deserve her."

She blinked. His words were almost muffled against her shirt, but she'd heard. "Who? Maggie?"

She felt his head shake. "Lochlyn," he sniffed, turning to rest his head on her shoulder. "I don't. I just don't…"

Renee listened, letting one hand rub across his back. "Hey—"

"I royally fucked up," he went on. "She's jus' this sweet little kid, and I…" His grip on her shirt tightened, and she could have sworn she felt him start to tremble. "She's gonna know; she's gonna find out I treated women like shit…but _fuck_! She's my kid, and I never want that to happen to her." His sobs intensified. "I don't deserve her; she deserves better than a fuck-up for a dad."

Christ. It was the rawness in his voice that was hitting her deeply. Typically, she could tell whenever Lance was bullshitting her, or putting on some kind of act, but this? This was legit _pain_ she was hearing and feeling from him. It was the only time he'd ever revealed to her how much his daughter meant to him, which she attributed to the amount of alcohol in his system. It must have been a secret he'd kept locked in his heart for quite some time, and for Renee, it was a glimpse into how _human_ he truly was. She couldn't help but pity the guy.

With a sigh, she reached up and stroked his dark hair, which was softer than it looked. "Hey," she soothed as best as she could, "Hey. Listen: we all screw up, Tucker. We do." She looked down at him. "Sometimes worse than others. But that doesn't mean you can't be worthy in your daughter's eyes."

"But the things I did…" He choked on another sob.

"The past will come back to haunt you sometimes—believe me, I know—but you can't let it control you. You have to learn how to use your screw-ups to your advantage, especially now that you have Lochlyn to worry about. If you focus on doing right by her, then maybe her impression of you will be better than you think."

He was quiet for a while, then sniffed again. "I'm not worthy of her."

"Depending on the kind of impact you want to have on her life, that will ultimately be her call to make. Not yours; not even Maggie's."

He shuddered on an exhale. Then he muttered, "Sure as hell'll never be worthy of you."

She had to half-smile at his attempt at flattery. "Few men are, but give yourself a damn break. You're only human, and you're bound to screw up. But if you learn from your mistakes, then that will really define—"

The next thing she knew, his lips were on hers, and her eyes widened in shock. She hadn't even seen him lift his head, let alone realize that he was moving in to kiss her, and every thought in her mind came to a screeching halt.

Ahh! She thought to herself. Normally, she would have decked anyone for even attempting to make such a move on her, but…

The barest of whimpers sounded in his throat, and she felt a shudder wrack through Lance's body as he continued to cling to her. Continued to kiss her. She couldn't explain why, but instead of shoving him away, she just…let it happen. Let the surprising softness of his mouth remain pressed against hers, even with the strong flavor of Jack filling her nostrils with his proximity. Let his warm hand trail up to rest on the skin at the base of her neck. Let him just have this moment. A moment of need. Absolute need. Watching him, she saw how his eyes were squeezed shut, and didn't miss the few tears that managed to squeeze free and stream down his cheeks.

God damn. Despite the less than ideal conditions under which this was occurring, even Renee had to admit how touching a display this actually was for him. Not to mention how decent a kisser he really was, even for being as wasted as he was. What amazed her the most, however, was how incredibly _gentle_ he was being with her, and without realizing it, her hand drifted up to cover his at her collarbone, reminding him that she was there with him.

He seemed to get the message, and a few moments later, his lips broke from hers as he released a quaking breath, letting his forehead fall forward to rest against her cheek. It also occurred to her that he'd finally stopped trembling.

Sighing to herself, she told him, "Come on," and once again helped him to his feet. Lance made no objection.

It was only a few minutes later when a yellow cab labeled Crown Taxi Service pulled up out front, and Renee led a still-disoriented Lance out of the bar and into the cool night air. She took a moment to help the driver make sure he had Lance situated in the back seat, and gave him instructions on where to take him. Before she left, though, she reached in and placed a reassuring hand on Lance's shoulder, not at all missing the way he stiffened at her touch. He glanced at her hand, almost as if he was mesmerized by it, but said nothing. Pursing her lips, she let her hand slide away from him, and after a moment, his eyes simply drifted toward the front of the cab.

Closing the passenger door, she tapped the top of the cab twice, watching Lance's forlorn face as the vehicle pulled away. She waited until it turned the corner at the end of the block, then sighed through her nose. Suffice to say, it had been an interesting night, and she struggled with the fact that she could still feel Lance's lips upon hers as she turned and walked back into _Lucky's_.

* * *

 _~One Week Later~_

Cutting off the tap sharply, Renee turned and set the mug of Arrogant Bastard Ale down in front of the customer waiting at the counter. Arrogant Bastard, her mind echoed ironically as she took her next order. It was their newest beer on tap, and one she'd have proudly served it to Lance if he ever decided to show up again.

A week. It had been an entire Goddamn week since she'd last seen him, heard from him—anything. She'd expected him to be back on that barstool the following night, but he never appeared. Same thing happened the next night. And the next night. Every time the front door opened, someone else would walk in, and that small sense of dread in her stomach seemed to grow with each passing day. She hated admitting it, but his prolonged absence had her on edge as of late, and the potential scenarios that played out in her mind did nothing to ease her concerns. Had he even made it home that night? Did the driver take advantage and mug him in his inebriated state? Was he perhaps passed out in his apartment in an alcoholic coma and nobody was aware? Or was he lying face-down dead in a gutter somewhere?

Fuck, she thought to herself, but forced a smile as another customer approached her bar. She was angry at him. Angry that he hadn't had the decency to reach out and at least let her know he was fine. Hell, he was in here so often that he had _Lucky's_ number on speed dial, so he had no excuse for leaving her hanging like this.

Unless…he was in some kind of trouble...

At one point, she sighed to herself, unable to suppress the memory of how soft his lips were on hers. She hated admitting that it wasn't just anger she was feeling in regards to his inconsideration; she was genuinely worried that something might have happened to him. He might be an ass, but after the way he'd broken down in her arms the week before…

Damn it, Tucker; where the hell are you?

Despite her silent struggles, she'd managed to push them aside and get through yet another night of work. It ended up being a good distraction that week, allowing her to focus on something other than the grim possibilities she'd been imagining for Lance, which she was quietly grateful for. It also gave her a chance to talk more with some of her other regulars again, perhaps the most satisfying part of her job. Still, it was hard not to hear Lance chiming in with his two cents, from across the bar, which would often result in her telling him off in order to shut him up. She missed that shit already.

Thankfully, the night passed by quickly and with very little incident. Stepping outside _Lucky's_ shortly after two-thirty in the morning, Renee locked the deadbolt and pulled on the handle to make sure it was secure. When the door didn't give, she turned and headed south, beginning her three-block journey to her apartment. She knew the route well, and had never had any qualms about walking alone at night. With her reputation, anyone with half a brain knew she was more than capable of defending herself if necessary. As usual, the few pedestrians she passed on the sidewalk barely even glanced at her, minding their own business as they sought their own destinations.

Half a block from her apartment building, however, she became very aware of the sound of footsteps following her from behind. Steadily. Deliberately. Not a casual walker. Arching an eyebrow, she felt her muscles automatically tense in preparation, but she didn't turn back to look. Not just yet. She just kept listening as she walked on, the steps becoming a little louder with each passing second. A little closer as she neared the front door of her building.

Try it, asshole, she thought to herself as one hand tightened into a fist. I fucking dare you.

Digging her keys out from her pocket with her other hand, Renee arrived at her door, and just as she was about to insert her key into the lock, a heavy hand clamped down on her shoulder. Hissing through her teeth, Renee reflexively spun and punched her assailant right in the eye, feeling a momentary shimmer of satisfaction when he cried out in pain and instantly collapsed to the sidewalk.

" _Fuck!_ " He yelled out, clutching at his eye with both hands.

She dropped back into a fighting stance, but then froze when recognition dawned on her. " _Tucker?_ "

"Jesus," Lance groaned again, writhing weakly before her, "who the hell do you think?"

"A mugger, to be perfectly honest," she knelt beside him as he groaned again. "What the hell do you think you're doing?"

"Following you."

"I get that, asshole," she slipped a hand under his shoulder to help him sit up, "now why were you following me?"

He was still holding a hand to his eye. "Mak'sure you got home okay."

She gave him an incredulous look, then rolled her eyes. "Of all people, you _know_ I can take care of myself—"

"Even so," he cut in, glancing at his palm as if to check for bleeding, "jus' needed to be sure." He looked up at her, one eye open while the other was squeezed shut. "I jus'…" He sighed, lifting a hand to cradle his eye again. "I had to."

She stared at him, not entirely sure what to say in that moment, especially with how defeated he appeared before her. She'd been worried about him all week, and here he finally was, the stubble a bit thicker on his cheeks than the last time she'd seen him. Something inside her chest tightened, but then the pungent odor of whisky finally hit her senses. Ugh. "Are you drunk?"

He lifted his head again. "Kinda."

She sighed audibly, then started pulling him to his feet. "Come on."

He winced a bit. "What are you…"

"I'm not about to leave you out here alone," she said, hoisting him up, "and we need to get you some ice on that eye, so no more questions. Let's just go."

"You got it, Bus'er ma'am," he slipped his arm around her shoulders as he stood.

She helped him keep his balance as she slipped the key into the front door lock, Lance still holding a hand over his eye as she led him into the narrow entryway and up the stairs.

* * *

 _~3:19a.m.~_

Lance sighed heavily yet again, shifting the icepack covering his eye. The frigid chill had numbed the worst of the pain, but now it was the biting cold that was starting to irritate his nerves. "It's _cold_."

"It's ice, dumbass," Renee said from the kitchen, "it's supposed to be cold."

He couldn't help but chuckle, letting his head fall against the back of the couch. "Guess you're right about that."

He listened as her footsteps neared, then felt one of the cushions dip beside him. "Here; let me see."

"Sure you're not gonna just punch me again?"

"If you piss me off, then absolutely," she assured, and he could hear the smirk in her voice as the warmth of her hand encircled his. "Now let me see."

Heaving another sigh, Lance let her pull back his hand, the cold still lingering from where the icepack had rested on his skin. Then he sucked in a quiet breath when her fingertips touched his cheek, encouraging him to turn his head towards her.

"Look at me," she instructed softly, and he opened his good eye to peer at her. She was leaning in close, giving him a full-on view of her lovely face, and it didn't escape his attention that she'd taken her dark hair down from her ponytail. He could only stare, transfixed by how beautiful she really was with her hair draping loosely over her shoulders, a few of the shorter tresses framing the curves of her cheeks. "Can you open the other one for me?"

It took a moment, but he managed to push aside the stinging pain as he peeled open his injured eye. As he did, her face came into greater focus, and he swallowed harder than he meant to.

Thankfully, she didn't seem to notice. "Looks like we iced it early enough," she said, resettling the pack gently on his eye, "so it won't swell up too bad. But it's gonna bruise up for a while; nothing I can do to prevent that."

"Spectacular," he said, laying his head back again.

"Sorry, Tucker."

He paused, then chuckled softly again. "S'alright. Hell of a right-hook you got there."

He could hear the faintest of laughs from her. "Dad wouldn't have had it any other way," he could feel her rise from the couch.

"Coached by your old man, huh?"

"He only trusted himself to train me properly," she affirmed, her voice drifting over from the nearby kitchen.

"Ah." He recalled some interviews he'd seen her give following fights, remembered how her father—an ever-devoted coach, the commentators would often say—would cup her face in his hands and simply touch his forehead to hers, his own way of telling her _Well done_. "So Daddy trained you up to be the little ass-kicker he always dreamed of. Classic story."

"Actually," Renee said over the sound of running water, "Dad was against the idea of me fighting at first. It was Mom who first encouraged me, and ultimately convinced him to let me train under him."

That caused him to lift an eyebrow, but then the action had him wincing in slight pain. Nope, don't do that, he reminded himself as the sting subsided. "Wait—your mom? For real?"

"I have no reason to lie," she cut the tap.

"Not saying that…"

"I know." She cleared her throat. "Mom was always a bit more adamant about me following my own heart, and she could tell at a young age that I was already gravitating towards being a fighter, so she never discouraged me from pursuing it," her voice drew near again. "Plus, she won't say it out loud, but part of me has always suspected that she secretly got a kick out of watching me take those bitches down during my matches." Lance gave a short laugh. "Dad was a bit more on-edge about it than her, though, and it's not like I can't see why. It's one thing for him to train people with no blood ties to him; it's quite another when it's his own daughter."

He heard something being set down on the coffee table, and he lifted his head to peer at the glass of water that she'd placed in front of him. He smirked; how appropriate. "Be even better if you told me that was a glass of tequila."

"If it makes it more appealing, fine, but I never keep the stuff in the house," she said as she took a seat on the edge of the chair adjacent to him. "Drink it; you need it."

Though he snorted softly, he reached out for the glass. "I suppose you have some Jack stashed away somewhere."

"Christ, no."

"Vodka?"

"Nope."

"Gin? Rum?" When she kept shaking her head, he swallowed the sip of water he'd just taken and said, "Jesus, please tell me you at least have some beer stashed in the fridge."

"When I said 'never keep the stuff in my house,' I wasn't just referring to Jack; I mean I don't keep alcohol in the house _period_. I don't touch the stuff."

He stared at her, then blinked his good eye once. "You work in a bar, but you don't drink alcohol?"

"That's right."

"How the hell can you stand that?"

"It is possible to function in a bar and not drink, you know," she said, her fingers casually unfastening the buttons of her dark vest.

Lance felt something tighten in his stomach. It occurred to him that he really was alone with her in her apartment for the first time, and as she slid the garment down those incredibly toned arms of hers, revealing the fitted black tank top she had on underneath…He briefly cleared his throat, suddenly needing to distract himself. "So umm…I guess that means you—"

"You were gone all week," she abruptly cut in.

He gave a slight start, realizing that she'd fixed him with an accusatory glare. "What?"

"You were gone," she repeated, fixing him with an accusatory glare, "and I had no idea if something had happened to you. Where the hell have you been?"

He blinked once. Twice. "Does it really matter?"

"Of course it does!" She suddenly exclaimed. "Come on, you plank yourself on that stool more often than any of my regulars, and let's face it: I get used to seeing the same faces night after night, especially after two God damn years. And then all of a sudden you don't show up for an entire week? What the hell was I supposed to assume?"

Maybe his brain was still fuzzy from the alcohol in his veins—or maybe he was still transfixed by the amount of exposed skin he was seeing on her—but he couldn't ignore the concern he'd clearly detected in her words. Removing the ice pack from his bruised eye, he carefully opened it and looked at her full-on. "You were worried about me, weren't you?"

Her features softened in that familiar way, and it was enough to make his heart skip a beat. With the barest shake of her head, she replied, "Tucker…why wouldn't I be?"

It was as though an invisible fist had punched him in the gut. Never in a million years did he ever expect her to admit that she'd been worried about his well-being, but now that she had…Closing his jaw, he just sat there. Staring stupidly at her as the silence lingered between them.

Thankfully, she was the first to speak. "You've been drinking all week haven't you?"

"Yeah." No use in lying about that.

He heard her sigh through her nose. "You know, I really wish you'd give some serious consideration to what I've mentioned to you."

Aaaaaaand just like that, the magic was gone, and he rolled his eyes in annoyance. "You mean what you've _lectured_ me about?"

"I'm not trying to lecture you. I just really think you ought to give it some serious thought. Going to rehab doesn't carry the kind of stigma that it used to. There are places you can go that will keep your identity under wraps; places that are particularly sensitive to celebrities. No one has to know that you're seeking help."

He snorted softly. Every single time, it was the same God damn thing. "I am _not_ fucking a drunk."

"I'm not trying to label you anything," she replied, "but I've become quite familiar with the signs of alcoholism, and whether you want to hear it or not, I see a lot of them in you. I really think you need more help than you're willing to admit." He shook his head, refusing to meet her gaze, even as silence fell between them once more. Then he heard her exhale audibly. "There's a reason why I don't drink, you know."

"Yeah?" He said, shifting the ice pack awkwardly between his hands. "Couldn't have it interfering with your training?"

"No; as part of my sobriety program."

At that, he froze, looking up at her again. "'Scuse me?"

"You heard me," she said, crossing her arms. "To keep myself from falling back into old habits."

He stared at her for a moment, not sure he'd heard her right, but those steady brown eyes of hers were not wavering. At all. Furrowing his brow, all he could manage to say was, "What?"

* * *

Once again, Renee sighed, a sad ache filling her heart. "You think you're the only one who's fucked up in life?" She muttered rhetorically, averting her eyes from his. Normally, she was reluctant to discuss the topic at length with anyone outside her family, but with the way his eyes had been boring into hers from across the coffee table—so focused, so attentive, waiting for her to go on…

If that's what it took to get through to him…

"Painkillers," she finally breathed. "I was in so much pain that I ended up hooked on prescription painkillers. That injury did more than end my career; it fucked me up royally." Those painful memories were washing over her yet again, reminding her that they would forever be a part of her past; would continue to influence the choices she made in her future.

"I got low," she went on, her voice quiet in her own ears, but somehow she knew Lance was listening. "Fighting was everything to me. Hell, I'd been training ever since I was seven, and it was just…it was like _breathing_ to me. Like, for the first time, I had a gift that set me apart from everyone else, and it gave me a chance to show Dad that I _was_ strong. That I was willing to take on any challenge that got in my way, just so he could see that I'd always be able to take care of myself. Then to suddenly have all that all ripped away in a two-minute bout? All because of my fucking _knee_?"

Her fingers tightened on her biceps. Seventeen years. Seventeen years as a fighter only to have her knee blow out because of _one Goddamn_ misstep. Even now, she recalled the _POP_ she'd sensed while grappling with her opponent, and the way she'd instantly collapsed as her leg bent outward at the wrong angle. And the pain; the searing pain that had _exploded_ within that joint as she screamed! Pain that had cruelly persisted even long after the worst of the swelling had subsided. "I can't even begin to describe the pain. It was just…constant. Unbearable. And surgery was supposed to fix everything, right?" She gave a bitter laugh. "Guess I just fell into that lucky fifteen percent who don't make a full recovery."

Then any trace of a smile faded as the memories continued to surface. "The damage to my knee severely limited my range of motion, and regardless of how many hours I put into physical therapy, there was no further improvement. Didn't matter how badly I wanted to get back in the ring: the doctors said I'd never fight MMA again, not unless I wanted to risk a more serious and permanent injury." Slowly, she shook her head. "I spent a long, useless year doing everything I was supposed to get back into fighting shape—week after week, month after month, the same Goddamn struggle every single day—only to be told that I couldn't do what I loved anymore." She paused, eyes narrowing when a familiar face flashed through her mind. Yeah, and you were pretty much gone after that, she mentally sneered.

"Who was gone?" Lance unexpectedly asked.

Damn it, she gritted her teeth, not realizing she'd spoken the thought aloud. "Mark."

"Mark?"

"My piss-poor excuse of an ex. Wasted three years with him, which turned out to be one of the biggest mista—"

"What did he do?"

The shift in his tone was what prompted her to finally look up at him, and despite the darkening bruise beneath his eye, she found herself transfixed. There was an intensity in his gaze that hadn't been present before, and as she continued to stare at those vibrant blue pools, she felt her stomach involuntarily flip. Pushing the thought aside, though, she forced herself to pull in a breath. "Ditched me about eight months after my injury. Once I was out of the spotlight, the glamour of having a famous girlfriend disappeared, and so did he. Broke up with me by _text_ ," she nearly spat. "Didn't even have the balls to break up with me to my face."

His eyes never left hers. "He's a Goddamn fool for hurting you, Renee."

At that, she blinked. The statement was far more eloquent than she had come to expect from him, and deep down, she felt a ripple of gratitude shimmering through her chest. "Yeah," she breathed. "Wasn't long after that I became dependent on my meds."

One of his hands tightened slightly on the ice pack. "What were you hooked on?"

"Started out going back and forth between Percocets and Vicodin, but it wasn't long before I was popping OxyContins like they were fucking Altoids. Let's just say my dependency didn't help my performance in therapy. Hard to improve your range of motion when you're in a perpetual state of sedation." She hesitated, but added, "Took a hell of a toll on my family."

"Howso?"

The sadness in her heart morphed into a stabbing pang of guilt. "I wanted someone to blame," she said quietly. "The rational side of me knew I couldn't blame my opponent for what had been ruled a freak accident, but…" She sighed. It was impossible to be realistic when the drugs had torn her mind in thirty different directions, and when she couldn't get any kind of reprieve from the mental torment... "You lash out at the ones you love," she nearly whispered, "just so you don't have to go through that pain alone. And Mom and Dad were tough. I mean, they had to be to put up with all my shit, but even they had their breaking points." She took a deep breath and sighed. "Mom left after the first time I OD'd. She couldn't handle watching me self-destruct anymore, and truth be told, her leaving made me feel like my whole fucking world was falling apart. You'd think that would have been enough to make me turn things around, but two months later, I OD'd again, "I don't remember much about that night, but I came to in the hospital, and Dad was sitting right there beside me. Said he'd found me face-down in a pool of my own vomit, and was so cold to the touch he thought I was already dead. Paramedics said at one point, my heart actually stopped while they were trying to revive me, and…" She trailed off, feeling her heart sink all over again.

"Renee."

She closed her eyes when he said her name. "I'd never seen Dad cry until that moment, and him falling apart like that in front of me was one of the most gut-wrenching things I'd ever seen. All I ever wanted to do was prove that I was capable of anything, but I finally realized my addiction had been slowly killing him inside." She met Lance's eyes again. "It took me breaking his heart to recognize that I needed help, and it needed to come from outside my family. I couldn't destroy their lives anymore, and that's when I checked myself into rehab. Not out of fear, but because I was determined to do make something of my life again, regardless of how long it took. I could have died that night, and scoff if you will, but I know I was given another chance to make things right, and I intend to make good on that."

He didn't scoff, though. Just kept his eyes riveted on hers, and something about the steadiness of his gaze was causing a gentle heat to rise to her cheeks.

Clearing her throat quietly, she said, "I was able to seek treatment privately, and that really knocked down my anxiety about the whole situation. After about a year and a half of sobriety, I moved to New York to start over, and my parents were really supportive about me wanting to be on my own. My sponsor was able to pull some strings to get me my job at _Lucky's_ , and even though bartending is a far cry from my fighting days, it turns out that I'm damn good at it. I get a chance to talk to all sorts of people in this city, and some of have the most interesting stories to tell. I like that part of it: getting to listen to others. It's just so easy to do, and cuts down on me feeling pressured to disclose my life story to anyone else. Spending time in this profession has really allowed me to feel more at peace with myself, and I honestly wouldn't trade it for anything." Even as she said it, a great weight seemed to be lifted from her shoulders, and she found herself sighing in relief. It was the most she'd divulged about the situation in a very long time, and though Lance was the last person she'd ever expected to open up to, she found that she had no regrets about telling him. At all. There was something oddly reassuring about that.

She could see his jaws squeeze beneath his cheeks, but he said nothing. Leaning forward to rest her elbows on her knees, she said, "I never meant to patronize you by bringing up the idea of rehab; I was only trying to help. I know context would have been useful, but I'm not keen on baring my soul to my customers like that. My addiction nearly killed my relationship with my parents, and even though it's been four years, we're still trying to patch things up between us. You have a family of your own to think about, too, and I just don't want the same thing to happen for you and Lochlyn."

By now, Lance's eyes had shifted back to his icepack, those dark brows deeply furrowed in thought as the silence ensued between them. It hardly bothered Renee; she'd thrown a lot at him, and he was more than likely still trying to process it all in his mind. She had to give him credit: despite his obvious inebriation, he'd been listening to her this entire time, and not once had he tried to deter her from—

"I'm leaving town," he suddenly said.

Her eyebrows shot up at that. "What?"

"I'm leaving," he repeated evenly. "There's something I need take care of, and that means I can't stay in this city any longer," he lifted his eyes to her at last. "Not right now, anyway. I have to go."

Her jaw dropped. "When?"

"Tomorrow."

 _Tomorrow_? She thought incredulously. "Are you fucking kidding me?" She nearly rasped. "W—where are you going?"

"I can't tell you that."

"Excuse me?"

"Not up for discussion," he tersely replied, placing the icepack on the table.

The breath she huffed in response was annoyingly shaky. "Oh really? And exactly how long do you anticipate you'll be gone?"

"I don't know."

"You don't _know_?"

"No," he met her eyes again, and she hated how calm they appeared despite his mild intoxication. "I just know that I have to go, and it has to be sooner rather than later."

She was gaping, she knew, but couldn't bring herself to care. "So that's it, then? You're just gonna take off, no explanation whatsoever? Are you at least going to give me a way to contact you in case something comes up?"

He shook his head once. "I can't. I'm sorry."

"You're sorry," she echoed, not even trying to disguise the growing disdain in her voice. "And I suppose you just expect me to sit here and say nothing after dropping this bomb on me?"

He exhaled through his nose. "No," he nearly whispered, "you, Renee, have always been far beyond any of my expectations."

Her eyes went wide, his statement striking her in a way that had her heart swelling through her disbelief. "Just trust me on this, okay?" He said, standing to his full height. "I gotta go. Thank you…f-for the ice." For a moment, he appeared as though he would say something more, but then he gave a stiff nod as he rounded the arm of the couch and headed toward the door.

But Renee was already on his heels, and just as he reached the front hallway, she grabbed him solidly by the shoulder and shoved him back against the nearest wall.

"Whoa!" Lance's eyes blew wide as she pinned him with her palms. "Easy, Buster! The fuck are you—?"

"Trust you?" Though her voice was quiet, the anger was radiating off her in waves, and she knew he could feel it. " _Trust you_? Is this all a fucking joke to you, or are you really just that dense?"

"I…what are you—"

"Two years, Tucker. You've spent the past two years getting shit-faced in my bar, which has resulted in me investing far more of my time and effort into you than I ever intended. But I did it because you needed someone, and that someone ended up being me."

He blinked, his brow furrowing. "You…hate me—"

"No," she said firmly. "You may be a thorn in my side, but you're also a human being, and I've been there for you for two years. Not out of obligation, but by choice. And when I find the strength bare my soul in return, you're just ready to skip town? Do you honestly think that won't have some kind an impact on those who care about you?" Then a thought occurred to her, one that had her stomach sinking as she assumed the worst. Setting her jaw, she pulled back slightly and said, "You don't remember a thing about that night last week, do you?"

That look of confusion was still evident in features, even as his brow gradually smoothed and those blue eyes began to shimmer with an unreadable emotion.

That alone told her what she already knew. Cursing to herself in humiliation, Renee shook her head. "Forget it," she clipped shortly, releasing her hold on him. "Just go. Get the fuck out," she turned on her heel, unable to look at him anymore. "Hope you find whatever it is you're looking fo—"

She didn't make it more than three steps: a gasp tore from her throat when Lance grabbed her from behind and shoved her back against that same wall, his body pinning her in place as his lips came crashing down on hers.

 _Fuck!_ Her mind automatically hissed, but instead of kneeing him in the groin as her instincts would have normally dictated, her hands betrayed her as they slid up to cup his face, holding him to her as she kissed him back just as fiercely.

It must have been a bit of a shock, for she felt him stiffen against her, and then he was groaning desperately into her mouth as his arms wrapped solidly around her—

His knees must have given out on him, and Renee gave a surprised yelp as they both toppled to the floor. Lance somehow maneuvered at the last second so that he took the brunt of the impact when they landed.

"Ow!" He grunted, rolling them so that he was looking down at her. "Sorry—"

She popped up and silenced him with a kiss, and that was all it took for him to give in. He kept kissing her, kissing her; his hands stroking down her body; his tongue licking at her lips until she parted them to give him full access. In the back of her mind, she tasted the lingering traces of whiskey on his breath, but it was hardly enough to deter her from the attentions of his mouth. _God damn_ , the man could kiss, and despite the underlying urgency she detected in his actions, his lips were still so soft against hers. So unexpectedly gentle. Much like the first time he'd kissed her.

The memory of that moment was still enough to make her stomach stir with excitement.

Breaking the kiss to catch her breath, Renee gasped when Lance latched onto her neck, and there was no stopping the long, aching moan that fell from her lips. It had been so long since she'd been intimate with anyone, and every touch, every sensation he elicited felt brand new to her all over again. She wanted him. Fuck, did she want him! To hell with rationality; all she wanted to do was _feel_ , and based on the way his body was pressing against hers, he was more than willing to comply.

He continued to lavish attention on her neck, his stubble occasionally scratching over the sensitive skin there and making her squirm beneath him. Raking her fingers down his broad back, she bit her lip at the erotic growl that rumbled through his chest, a sound that sent a shot of hot lust straight to her core.

"Shit," she hissed, threading her fingers through his thick, dark hair and tugging slightly. He moaned in response, shifting his hips forward so that she felt a very noticeable hardness rubbing against her thigh. "Ah…" Her eyes fluttered shut.

"Are you—" The catch in his voice had her opening her eyes. Lance was gazing down at her, uncertainty clearly marking his face as panting breaths passed through his lips. "I mean…do you—" But then his eyes bulged when Renee reached down to cup the straining length through his pants. A low groan slowly escaped his throat.

"Don't get sentimental on me," she whispered before kissing him again, and she secretly thrilled at the way his hips insistently shoved against hers. His hands were everywhere after that: her shoulders, her breasts, her hips, her ass, the outsides of her thighs. She couldn't get enough, if the sounds falling from her own mouth were any indication. Even she couldn't resist bracing her palms against his chest, marveling at the firm panes of muscle she detected through his shirt. Even though he was no longer training like a hardcore gymnast, she could already tell that his physique was impressive as fuck.

"Tell me what you want," he rasped, dragging his mouth across her collar bone. "Tell me…"

Another trembling moan passed her lips as she eagerly arched up against him. "Keep touching me, dammit."

Stroking his down her sides, his fingers slipped beneath the hem of her tank top, sliding it up to reveal the black bra she had on underneath. "Fuck," he breathed, cupping her breasts in his hands.

Hissing at the contact, Renee covered his hands with hers, encouraging him to squeeze the pliant flesh as she continued to writhe beneath him.

"Jesus, Renee," he breathed huskily.

Hearing that sound sent a surge of heat rushing through her, a sensation that intensified when Lance bent down to lave the tops of her breasts with his tongue. Her head fell back with a sigh, and he kissed his way up her neck, across her jaw, recapturing her mouth once more as he settled his body beside hers. While he ravaged her mouth, one of his hands trailed over her belly, and she couldn't control the way she trembled beneath his light touch. Then she gasped in her throat when his fingers dipped just beneath the waistband of her jeans, and she felt his deep chuckle vibrate through her.

"Shh," he soothed, his fingers deftly undoing her button and zipper.

He'd barely finished when she started to wriggle them down her legs, and she'd just barely gotten rid of her panties when his hand shot down to cup her searing pussy.

She broke their fervent kiss with a strangled cry. " _Ah!_ " He wasted no time slipping a finger between her damp folds, stroking it up and down her seam while she jerked her head to one side.

"So fucking wet already," he said lowly, and she groaned when that finger slid all the way in. "Getting so ready for me…" He claimed her lips again, swallowing her moans and strangled cries as his hand began a slow rhythm in and out of her. His tongue was thrusting into her mouth in time with his movements, and it wasn't long before he added a second finger into her slick passage.

Tearing her mouth away, she rocked her hips against his hand, desperately seeking more friction in hopes of achieving her bliss. But he was still going at that maddeningly slow pace, and she gritted her teeth in frustration.

"God, you're tight," he murmured, his tongue dipping in the hollow of her throat. "So slick and tight. I'm gonna make you scream when I'm inside y—"

It was his turn to yelp when she managed to flip them over without warning, and she moved to straddle his waist. Sliding her hands under his shirt, she revealed that incredibly chiseled six-pack of his inch by inch, biting her lip at how fucking gorgeous his body really was. The man truly was an athlete, and there was no stopping the grin that suddenly curved her lips. "Not unless I make you scream first." Scoring her nails down his chest, he arched against her hands, then cried out when she bent down to latch onto one of his nipples.

"Fuck!" His hands tangled in her hair as she bit and sucked at the hardening bud, dragging her lips across his chest to pay similar attention to his other nipple. "Oh, God…"

Yes, she thought, scraping her teeth over him. Desire was pooling hotly between her legs, evidence of which was no doubt being left on his abdomen as she rolled her hips over him. Licking a path up the center of his chest, she pushed his shirt up even further and breathlessly demanded that he take it " _Off!_ " As he tugged it over his head, Renee sat back and tore her tank top away completely, gasping when Lance shot up and latched onto her breast. Closing her eyes with a sigh, she reveled in the drawing pull of his mouth of her, then hissed at the sharp sting she felt when he teethed her nipple through the fabric of her bra. Threading her fingers through his hair, she clutched him to her as he continued with his sweet torture from one breast to the other. She loved the feel of his mouth on her; the way his wide palms smoothed down her back to cup and firmly squeeze her ass; how easily she seemed to mold against him as they moved together…

As content as she would have been to let him stay there and keep it up, she pressed a palm to his chest until he pulled back, and her hands wasted no time flying down to undo his pants.

Though he was breathing heavily, he half-smiled suggestively. "Going for the gold, huh?"

She snorted softly. "Is that what you call it?" She asked, unzipping him and—At the first sign of color, she paused, blinked in confusion. Red, white, and... "Wait, what is…?" Shoving his pants further down his hips, she revealed the hidden image to her eyes: a cascading ribbon that disappeared beneath the waistband of his boxers… "Are you fucking kidding me?" She giggled, getting a good look at the region just above his groin. "You really tattooed a gold medal on your junk?"

He gave what sounded like a nervous laugh. "Was a fitting memento, I thought."

Something about that laugh, and something about seeing that slight blush in his cheeks…She smiled wickedly with intent, feeling her eyes darken as she looked at him. "Was it?" His eyes nearly bugged out of his head when she reached into his boxers to grasp his throbbing length.

"Uuuuuunnnnngggghhh!" He all but collapsed back onto his elbows.

Pulling his erection forth, Renee drew in a breath. Jesus…It really wasn't just looks that this man had going for him. He was _impressively_ endowed. That thick cock of his jutted proudly from the confines of his pants, the sight of it causing something to tighten deep inside of her. Reflexively, she licked her lips. Already so hard in her hand…and then she smirked gently. Sure enough, there was the rest of his tattoo, that circular medallion permanently inked into that masterpiece of flesh. One that would only be visible when he was fully erect.

Must have been an interesting trip to the tattoo parlor, she mused.

Hearing his sharp intake of breath, Renee scooted back to settle between his thighs, her eyes never leaving his. "That mean I get to taste gold, then?" His mouth fell open as her lips enveloped the soft tip of his cock, and his guttural moan had her smiling in triumph.

"God, you… _fuck!_ "

"Hmmm," she hummed appreciatively around him, leading with her tongue as she bobbed up and down on his shaft. It was empowering having him at her mercy like this, feeling him shiver as her hand stroked his length in time with her mouth, and as she opened wider to take him in even deeper—

She gasped when he reared up without warning, cupping her face and urging her away from his lap. "But I was just getting—"

He silenced her by crushing his lips to hers, and her eyebrows shot up at the intensity behind his kiss. Well damn, she thought, surrendering to him as he lowered himself back to the floor, her chest pressed against his, and the hardness of his cock pressed firmly against her belly. Fuck, she thought, shifting her hips forward and prompting a moan of approval from him.

Breaking the kiss, Lance's lips hovered over hers. "Brace yourself."

Her brow furrowed. "What?"

"Go stiff. Like a board."

Oookaaaaay. She wasn't exactly sure what this was about, but she extended her arms and legs as he'd instructed, bracing her abdominal muscles for added rigidity. Then his hands were at her waist, and her eyes went wide when he hoisted her up toward the ceiling, spinning her above him in one fluid motion. What the…? She almost started laughing, but didn't dare break her concentration, and when she came to a stop, she was looking down on his proud gold.

"Spread your legs," he growled.

God, she felt herself wetting at those words, and when she carefully separated her thighs in midair, Lance brought her down and immediately started lapping at her dripping core.

" _Ahhhhh!_ " She cried out, her head falling forward. Oh, _God,_ the things this man could do with his tongue! And based on the eagerness of his licks, it was a talent he was quite proud of. "Fuck, Tucker!"

He let loose a low rumble that vibrated straight through her, making her shiver in delight.

Not to be outdone, though, she wrapped a hand around his cock, feeling the responsive jerk of his hips before taking his length into her mouth once more. She gave a slight start when he lifted her again, pumping her steadily as she bobbed up and down his length, and soon she picked up on his rhythm, moving her hand over him in time with his pace. Each time he lowered her, his tongue would swipe over her seam, and her moans were becoming more and more desperate the longer he kept at it. Absently, she felt herself smile. Part of her had always wondered if gymnasts ever attempted freaky shit like this in bed, and he certainly wasn't disappointing her curiosity in the slightest.

Swirling her tongue over his head, Lance moaned loudly, and that was when he fastened his lips around her clit and began to suckle. Renee nearly collapsed atop him when he lowered her completely, his hands grasping her thighs to make sure she didn't move. "Oh God," she mumbled, sliding his cock out of her mouth. "Oh shit…"

By now, he'd stopped pumping her in the air, all of his attentions seeming to be focused on making her lose control with lips and teeth and tongue. And fuck, if he kept this up, that was exactly what was going to happen. Without realizing it, she began grinding her pussy against his face, her mouth falling open when the tip of his tongue slipped between her folds to stab at her entrance.

"Tuckeeer," she groaned, her fingers biting into his hips. Her thighs were tingling from the faint scrape of his stubble, and when his hand slid up to pinch at her clit, that was what finally sent her over the edge. With a keening wail, Renee's orgasm rocked through her, and Lance growled deeply as he lapped greedily at her juices. "Oh God," she moaned, wave after wave of pleasure rolling through her with an intensity that had her heart pounding, even long after her climax had ebbed. "Fuck," she exhaled, resting her forehead against him as she caught her breath.

"Not giving up on me now, are you?"

She had to smile at his playful tone. It was the first time she'd ever heard that edge of confidence in his words, and in her mind, it only amplified his sex appeal. Angling her head back towards him, she challenged, "Why? Are you spent already?"

He chuckled beneath her, then she sucked in a breath when his tongue flicked over her slit. "Roll over, Renee."

Anticipation swirled in her stomach as she rolled to lay beside him, and Lance made quick work of shucking his shoes and pants. Once he was gloriously naked, she moved to drape a leg over his thigh, trailing a hand up his chest. "Do I get to finish—"

But he seized her by the shoulders, throwing her down to the floor and kissing her hard before he…actually, Renee wasn't exactly sure how to describe what happened next. He appeared to do some kind of maneuver straight out of a pommel horse routine, and as he rotated his body just inches above her supine form, there was no holding back the giggle that bubbled forth from her throat.

"Holy _shit_ ," she laughed as he braced his hands on either side of her shoulders, splitting his legs wide as he lowered them to her hips. "You crazy ass," her hands roamed his chest, very aware that his knees were nudging her thighs apart. Discreetly, she drew in a breath. "You're just full of surprises, aren't you?"

The slow smile he gave had her heart racing in a way she didn't expect, and then her mouth fell open as he pushed at her entrance, feeling his cock slide into her hot passage in one solid thrust. "And now," his breath caught as his smile widened, "so are you."

Unable to help it, she started laughing, and he right along with her, and then he was covering her mouth with his as he pulled back to thrust into her again. And again. And again.

Christ, she thought, digging her fingers into the firm muscles of his ass. Never could she have anticipated feeling this good with him. The erotic fullness of his cock making her crazy with need; the feel of him hitting her deeper and deeper with each fluid stroke of his hips; the sound of their moans ricocheting off the walls of her tiny apartment. His hands were on her, kneading her skin, her breasts, her thighs in time with his thrusts, making her yearn for more— _more_ —as she lifted her thighs to flank his waist.

Growling deep in his chest, Lance reared up, grabbing the backs of her thighs as he pounded furiously into her.

"Oh, fuck," moans continued to fall uninhibited from Renee's mouth, hardly minding the mild burn of her back rubbing over the carpet with each forceful thrust.

"God…what you _do_ to me," he rasped, his head falling back in what appeared to be pure ecstasy.

What _you_ fucking do to _me_ , her mind countered, a louder moan tearing from her mouth as she cupped her breasts and squeezed. Her entire body was on fire, a sweet inferno pulsing from her core to every nerve, every pore, every cell of her being, growing hotter and hotter with each passing second. An agony, she silently confessed, that she was more than willing to surrender to. "Oh, God…" Her back arched off the floor, feeling him hit her even deeper inside. "Lance…" She uttered breathlessly, unable to suppress the small smile that—

Her brow furrowed when his movements slowed, her eyes fluttering open when he stilled altogether. "Lance?" She panted. He was still hard inside her, and though his breathing was just as labored as hers, she didn't miss the sudden faraway look in his eyes. "What's wrong?"

When he didn't answer, a knot of worry began to tighten in her stomach.

Swallowing, she reached out to press a palm to his abs, trying to bring him back to her. "Hey," she said softly, "what is it?"

His eyes searched hers for a moment, and she was taken aback when she recognized the uncertainty shimmering behind them. His voice was a hoarse whisper when he said, "That's the first time you've ever called me Lance."

She stared, realizing he was right. She'd only ever referred to him as Tucker, and in her carnal haze, she hadn't even been aware that it was his first name spilling from her lips. That look in his eyes, though…it was piercing her in a way that she couldn't adequately describe…

Lowering her legs, she sat up and touched his face, drawing him close to kiss him softly. Sweetly. Letting her lips linger on his before pulling back to look into his dazed eyes. Stroking his stubbled cheek, she brought a hand to his chest, pressing gently as she whispered, "Lay down."

He obeyed without a word, and as he slid out of her, Renee sighed at the feeling of loss. But she was already straddling his hips, absolutely captivated by the way he just kept looking at her, even as she reached up to unclasp her bra. His chest expanded as she discarded it, and her heart fluttered at the look of pure wonder that filled his eyes.

"God damn…" he breathed, then gasped when she reached down to take his cock in hand. Guiding him back to her entrance, she slipped him inside of her once more, her walls stretching around him to accommodate his girth. Not once did she look away as she settled down on him, nor when his hands slid up her sides to cover her breasts.

" _Renee_ ," he said so reverently. And then she was moving her hips against his.

It was incredible how full he made her feel at this angle, each thrust forward making her gasp and tremble as she impaled herself on him. All the while, those hooded blue eyes were watching her, encouraging her movements with the slightest undulations of his hips, his hands cupping and kneading the full weight of her heaving breasts as she moaned in response. It was when his fingers began to pinch at her nipples that she closed her eyes, her hips shifting into a faster pace, the stabbing sensation in her core intensifying as she continued to ride him.

"Ahh!" She faltered briefly when he pressed his thumb to her clit, but his steady stroking had her finding her rhythm once more, and she planted her palms on his chest.

"That's it," he rasped, groaning deeply. "Ah, fuck yes…"

Fuck yes, her mind echoed, the delicious friction between them causing her jaw to drop as her moans started hitting a frenzied pitch. "Oh God… _ah_ —!"

That was when Lance shot up and devoured her breasts with his mouth, shoving his hips up into her. "Let go, Renee," he growled between licks, "let go…"

As he sucked harder at her breast, she threw her head back and screamed, feeling something shatter wonderfully inside her as her as her nails dug into the backs of his shoulders. And still, the waves of her orgasm were coming, still fanning that insatiable fire that continued to burn, making her nerves throb with its power as Lance desperately chased his own release. Seizing her hips with his hands, Lance drove into her relentlessly, over and over again until Renee felt him stiffening beneath her, and then he, too, threw his head back with a bellowing cry as she felt him shoot deep inside her.

For a moment, it seemed as though he'd stopped breathing, and Renee brought a hand to cup the back of his head. That was all it took for him to lift his eyes to hers, and she could feel the dampness of his sweat through his hair. They were both still breathing heavily, still coming down from the euphoric high of their orgasms, and instead of speaking, Lance kissed her. She kissed him back, recognizing this for what it was: an act of passion, comfort, and relief, all at the same time. Something they both needed from each other.

Pulling back, Lance was looking into her eyes, and Renee smoothed a damp tress of hair back from his temple. With a sigh, he leaned forward to rest his forehead against her cheek, and she held him to her without question.

For the longest time, they were content to remain in one another's embrace, letting only the sounds of their breathing interrupt the quiet of the room.

* * *

Brightness was gradually coaxing her out of a deep sleep, and Renee stirred upon her bed as she opened her eyes. The numbers of the digital clock on her nightstand were the first to greet her: _1:22p.m._

Hmm, she murmured to herself, recalling the events of the past several hours. Sometime after they'd calmed down, they'd made it to her bedroom, curling up next to each other in bed as they drifted off to a peaceful sleep. At one point, she woke to Lance pressing light kisses over the back of her shoulder, and they'd made love again—gently this time—quietly bringing each other over the edge before succumbing to sleep once more.

Now, though, she sighed heavily, turning over to face the empty spot next to her. She wasn't exactly surprised that Lance was already gone, but that didn't alleviate the disappointment stinging her heart. Still, it was what it was, and she resigned herself to that as she smoothed a hand over the wrinkles he'd left behind in the comforter. A spot had long since gone cold without his body heat. How she wished there was some way to tangibly feel him through that cover…

But then her brow furrowed when she focused on his pillow, realizing something had been placed on top of it. Reaching out, Renee's fingers picked up the piece of paper—no, it was a pamphlet, one that provided information for a place called _Brookside Serenity Farm_ : _Transitional Sober Living._ As the name suggested, it appeared to be a working farm that provided lodging and counseling services to those seeking treatment for addiction. And below the facility's name, a quick note had been scrawled in pen:

 _I get to work with horses._

 _-Lance_

 _P.S. I remember_ _everything_ _about that night._

A smile crept upon Renee's lips. So that was why he'd been so secretive about his reasons for leaving town: he wanted to seek help on his own terms, and he wanted to do so quietly. Though he hadn't said it in his note, his subliminal message had been clear, and it was one she took very seriously: _To make myself worthy of you._

A promise. One that made her heart swell beneath her chest.

Clutching the pamphlet to her chest, she turned to bury her face in his pillow, peace filling her mind when she inhaled the scent of him still clinging to the case.

 **THE END**


End file.
